


Anxious Pleasures

by nicasio_silang



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Horror, pseudo-cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:31:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicasio_silang/pseuds/nicasio_silang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Sam Winchester awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a marionberry pie.</p><p>With apologies to Kafka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anxious Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

> This is a couple years old. Re-posting here for posterity.

As Sam Winchester awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a marionberry pie.

Naturally, he was not at first aware of the exact nature of his predicament. He thought to himself that he could not feel his legs, his arms, that he could not see. Alarmed, he came to several likely conclusions.

First, that his spine had been severed. From experience, he knew this did not feel like much at all, that it was a sort of loosening of the body, as if one’s skeleton were a single elastic band stretched taut, and as if it had snapped, sending the limbs and neck into an uncoordinated, unfeeling jumble. How would this happen while he slept? And what of his blindness?

Second, he imagined that his arms and legs had been sawed off. A forced anesthetic could have been administered, still holding him in its dulling thrall now. Perhaps his eyeballs had been dug from their sockets. Did they sit nearby, watching him flounder? 

Third, and directly related, he considered that he was being eaten alive. As a child, made aware quite young that this was among the possible ways he could meet his end, being eaten alive was a frequent tense daydream of Sam’s. He had, of course, witnessed others eaten alive, and the knowledge of the body as an object so easily deconstructed was an uneasy thing to carry. As a boy, he bit his fingernails to the quick, until they bled. He tugged out strands of hair from his head and nibbled at them. He pinched his flesh between his fingers and frowned at its easy malleability. It was easy to imagine now: the red mess of his meat laid bare and the shatter-shrapnel of bone.

But it should hurt, he thought. It should hurt, and also he could not see. Options exhausted, panic crept in. 

Presently, he heard his brother’s voice.

“Whaaat? Dude. Yes. Pie.” He launched into a song whose only lyric was “pie”.

As to how a marionberry pie has the power of hearing, that is a topic this author is not qualified to discuss. Leave it to this, that it seemed at first a mercy.

Sam strained to speak. His voice would not answer him. He felt his mouth, a dry and cracking “oh” shaped and static. There was the noise of puttering nearby, there was Dean’s nonsense-humming. Sam knew that Dean must see him, he must. Perhaps he appeared merely asleep? And so he must speak, he simply must. Still, his mouth would not move. His mouth did not feel like his mouth. 

With all his will and self, Sam pushed out at the world. He became conscious of a bubble of air rising up from within himself, and from its passage he was able to determine certain facts about the state of his body: there was not much of it, and what remained was nearly gelatinous in texture. He was slop, held together by he didn’t know what. He wasn’t a body so much as a mass, indistinct, paralyzed.

The cruelty of his continued consciousness hit him fully. Unlikely, merciless, his mind ticked on. He heard the clink of metal. Of a knife? Of a spoon? Of Dean carrying on without him. He wished for oblivion. 

Through some means Sam could not name, he sensed his brother very nearby. He could have sobbed for the comfort of it, and would have tried, had it not been that just then, he experienced a feeling so singularly unsettling that he felt a sort of nausea of the soul. He felt himself breached, cracked open, crumbled in on, the miserable insides of him cut and scooped, pulled apart. He felt some part of himself ripped out. And then, sickeningly, he heard the sound of his brother’s chewing.

His mind rebelled. No, a litany of no. A fervent prayer of not this, no. But it was this, it was, finally this: Sam, dissected and sent down Dean’s gullet piecemeal. No irony in this, no poetry or metaphor, only revulsion. Sam wished and wished for the end of it, but an end simply would not come. He remained awake and feeling until he felt Dean’s utensil scrape the very bottom edge of him. 

Until he heard his brother say, one final time, “Oh, hell yeah. Hell yeah, pie.”


End file.
